


Starlit Nights

by youreyestheyglow



Series: Stars and Wings [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, Neighbor au, There's actually no smut in this, just mentions of it, musician au, trans!jean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 02:42:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2491481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youreyestheyglow/pseuds/youreyestheyglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco's a pianist, and he hopes his new neighbor won't mind him playing, even though the walls in their duplex are thin.<br/>Marco's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starlit Nights

**Author's Note:**

> _If you meet somebody and your heart pounds, your hands shake, your knees go weak, that’s not the one. When you meet your ‘soul mate’ you’ll feel calm. No anxiety, no agitation. ___  
> \- Monica Drake
> 
> Yin No Piano – Yoko Kanno  
> Morning Again – Ilya Beshevli  
> Sky Full of Stars – Coldplay  
> Butterfly Waltz – Brian Crain  
> The Breaking Light – Vienna Teng  
> The Sacrifice/The Promise/Heart Asks Pleasure First – Michael Nyman  
> Stargaze – Nick Smalley  
> Moonlight Sonata – Beethoven  
> Untitled – The Tumbled Sea  
> Starlit Nights – AJ Raphael

I let out a sigh when the last of them drives away. They’d been incredibly loud, yelling at and over each other. I swear I can identify the ones named Connie and Sasha by their voices alone, at this point.

I hear a voice from the other side of the wall – it sounds like a guy, and it doesn’t sound like English.

He says something again, and it clicks – he’s speaking French. College French might’ve been shit, but it’s enough that I can pick out a couple words. _Je suis_ : _I am_. Easy enough. _Edeo_? I struggle with that one for a minute before my memory kicks in and – oh. _Idiot_. I am idiot? No, no, _idiot_ in French is an adverb, not a noun. _I am stupid_.

Well, that’s fucking sad.

Half of me wants to go over there, bake him some cookies or something, but logic overrides that. He just moved in, and even if he’s up for a guest right now, I feel like I wouldn’t be very helpful.

So I go to my piano instead.

I play something I made up a little while ago, but I never did figure out how to end it, so instead of dropping it where I usually stop, I fly into a bridge and into _Clair de Lune,_ one of my favorites.

The couch creaks, just a tiny squeak that manages to occur in one of the quieter moments of the song, and I wonder if he got up – and then it creaks again. Probably just adjusting his position.

So I keep playing.

 _Moonlight Sonata_. My own version of _Bang Bang_. Songs I’ve picked up from movies. Chopin.

When I start _Feather Theme_ from Forest Gump, though, I hear the couch springs whine before I hear the knocking on the wall.

“Hold? Wait? Please?”

His voice comes through the wall muffled, but I can hear his French accent.

“Sure. Yes.”

I let my hands drop from the keyboard.

Seconds tick by.

They turn into minutes.

I have work in an hour. How long does he want me to wait?

But then he knocks on the wall. “Both of us play? A… duo? Duet.”

“I –” A duet? Does he know that song? “Yeah. I’ll count it out?”

He’s silent for a minute, and I can’t help but wonder if he knows what I’m saying, and then he says “Yeah.”

“1, 2, 3, 4 –” He starts in at precisely the same moment I do, and I nearly stutter to a halt when I hear _violin._ I’m not quite sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that.

It screeches a bit at first, but if he came all the way from France, I can only imagine that it’s a little out of tune. It evens out, though, about halfway through, and _Christ_ he’s good. He’s good. Really good. He _speaks_ with his violin.

“Thank you,” he says at the end. “Thank you very much.”

I grin at the wall. “You’re an amazing violinist.”

I hear something that might be a chuckle. “You are an amazing pianist, as well.”

“Thank you. We should do this again, some time.”

“I am a fan of _Clair de Lune_. But we should do it next time. I have to unpack.”

“All right. Good luck.”

“ _Merci._ ”

I hunt for the proper word. You’re welcome… _tu es_ … what the fuck is the word for – no, no, wait – “ _De rien?_ ”

He says something in rapid-fire French, absolutely none of which I pick up on. “What?”

“Ah. You don’t speak French, then.”

“No. I only had a couple years of it in college. Was never very good at understanding it.”

“Oh. Maybe I can teach you.”

“I’d like that.”

“I’ll talk to you later?”

“Later.”

I slide off the bench and stand. This might be the first time in the three years I’ve lived here that I’m actually _happy_ about how thin the walls are.

I dress for work and, as usual, I debate not bringing my binder of sheet music with me – when was the last time I used it? – but as usual, anxiety wins over, and I grab it on my way out the door. What if I _do_ forget a song? Better to have the sheet music with me.

I work in a bar, open til 2 in the morning, the end of my seven-hour shift. You’d think that with 42 hours a week spent playing piano, I’d never wanna play it at home, but you would be very, very wrong.

Playing piano at home is nothing like playing in a bar. At work, I play quieter tunes, stuff that can fade into the background. Jazzy stuff, too – in general, people who are drunk in a bar at 1 A.M. aren’t happy enough to enjoy some of Mozart’s snappier works. At home, I play Beethoven, I play waltzes, I play things I love, things that never get requested in a bar. My job is not the same as my hobby.

Seven hours pass slowly, but the patrons are nice tonight and I don’t mind being here, really. I get some good tips, probably more than I deserve, considering all I have to do is play the same fifteen songs on repeat all night. Customers come and go often enough that they don’t notice, and the few who stay longer than that are usually too drunk to recall a song from well over an hour ago.

It’s a cool spring night, the kind that makes me glad I live close enough to walk. I take my time strolling home.

My neighbor’s lights flick off as I approach my door, and I find myself thinking about him as I lock the door behind me. Did he really stay up this late unpacking? Does he have a job yet? I hope it’s a day job. That’s how I got along with my old neighbors – they could hear me play piano through the walls, but they were at work when I was home and I was at work while they were asleep. I never had the chance to wake them up, or even to bother them.

Then again, I hope he _doesn’t_ have a day job, or at least that he doesn’t start today. He’ll be exhausted.

Then again, it’s none of my business, I’ve barely spoken twenty words to the guy, and I don’t really care.

The lies I tell myself after work are usually shitty.

I don’t really like him, though. I don’t even know him. I just like his violin playing, and sincerely hope that one day he’ll be comfortable enough to come over here so we can play a proper duet. I want to make music with him. It’s been a long time since I wanted to play a duet with someone this badly.

What’s he like? Did he just move here from France? Has he been to America before? His friends didn’t have any accent – that I could hear through the wall, anyway – so they must be American. Where’d he meet them?

I fall into bed and think about not hearing any French, accents or words, while he was moving in. No French people there at all, then. And that makes me think about moving to a foreign country with no family, no friends from home. Only friends with whom he wasn’t comfortable enough to talk to, apparently – or just wouldn’t let him get a word in edgewise, anyway. Or maybe he just couldn’t. He didn’t seem hugely confident with his English when he spoke to me – maybe he just wasn’t confident enough to keep up with them.

I just have so many questions for him, I should just go over his house and…

And then I’m knocking on his door – dressed? I’m dressed in a suit, do I own a suit like this? I guess I do – and he’s opening the door, lights blazing through even though there isn’t any light coming through his – oh – wait – there’s light coming through his windows now, that makes sense… wavy dark hair and bad teeth but a nice smile and my height and he speaks like the guy from _French Kiss_ , good enough English but a nice French accent and he’s inviting me in and oh, wow, piano and…

 

I frown at myself in the mirror. The last few notes of a song are floating through my head, disappearing even as I try and remember them. I hate dreams. They’re too hard to remember and a pain in the ass.

I consider shaving and showering, but it is nine in the goddamn morning and I barely got six hours of sleep and I’m going back to bed if it kills me.

So I stumble downstairs instead.

I really, really hope my new neighbor is awake already.

If not, he’s getting woken up to a piano rendition of _Radioactive_ , because I like to start my mornings with Imagine Dragons. Also, because anything classical is too complicated for nine in the morning, and just about any pop song is easy enough to play in my sleep.

So I’m halfway through, singing at the top of my lungs, when someone knocks on my wall.

I take my foot off the pedal.

“Do you have a habit of playing loudly at too-fucking-early in the morning?” He asks. Judging by how clearly his voice comes through, he is literally standing with his face pressed against the wall.

I have to suppress my laughter as I try and picture it. It’s not helping that I have no idea what he looks like. “No. No, I don’t. I’m sorry. I was – hoping you’d be awake already. Usually I don’t get up til eleven or twelve.”

“Do you have a job?” He asks curiously.

“Yeah. A night job, though. Seven to two, instead of nine to five.”

“Why. Are you awake?” He groans against the wall.

I shift closer. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Can you sleep now?”

“I think I woke myself up more, actually,” I admit with a grimace. I’m not going to be able to fall back asleep. I’m going to be fucking _exhausted_ by the end of my shift tonight.

He sighs loudly. “I guess I should be depacking.”

“De – you mean unpacking?”

He mumbles something that I don’t quite catch. I don’t hear much from him after that – must be too far away from the wall.

I consider the keys in front of me. I bang out a couple theme songs, and then it’s back to _Clair de Lune,_ and before I get three measures in, the violin starts up.

I can’t help but grin. “I thought you were supposed to be unpacking?” I ask when we finish playing.

He groans. “Too tired. Do you know the theme song from _Schindler’s List_?”

“No.”

“Damn.”

“I’ll learn it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

There’s a pause, and then something _thumps_ against the wall. “Thank you. I’d give you sheet music, but I only have the violin part.”

“It’s fine. Did you just hit your head against the wall?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Stomach ache.”

“Eat something bad?”

He groans. “I forgot how long it takes to adjust to the cheese here.”

I latch on to the opportunity. “You forgot? You’ve been here before?”

There’s a pause, and then – “Oh, shit, you can’t see me nodding. Fuck, these walls are thin, I forgot… I was an exchange student, here, after my last year of high school. Learned English, was told I was incredibly good, went home, didn’t bother to practice – shit, didn’t bother _practicing_ – and forgot most of it. Sure as hell didn’t realize it, though. Got a job at Chanel ‘cause I’m bilingual, they can stick me here and bam, translator, and just out of college, too, so they can pay me shit.” His sigh barely makes it through the wall, but it’s there. “Don’t mind, though. It’s nice to be back here. And I’ve got a nine-to-five job that pays relatively well. And it’s a good enough opportunity, I can actually expect a raise. And even if this place is shit, well, it’s close enough to work, it’s cheap, and now that you’ve woken me up with _Radioactive_ of all songs, you’re not allowed to yell at me for playing violin.” He laughs. “Now that I think about it, it’s a pretty good place to be.”

“Good to know I helped calm your anxieties,” I say dryly.

“Thanks for that – what’s your name?”

“Marco.”

“I’m Jean.”

“Good to meet you, Jean.”

“Good to meet you too, Marco. So what about you? Why are you in this shithole?”

“It’s not a _shithole_ , per se –”

“Marco. Marco. I am having a conversation with you _through the wall_. We’re not even having communication problems. I haven’t even had to ask you what you were saying, and I’ve barely spoken English in _four years_. I am flat broke and I still have enough money to pay rent for this place. This is a shithole.”

I grimace. “Well, when you put it like _that_ … yeah. I’m. I play piano in a local bar. Not sure what my title would be, but I’ve been playing there for five years, since I was a junior in college. I like it here. It’s close enough to walk to, and my income is so stable I may as well be salaried. Good tips, too. Living here instead of somewhere nicer means I don’t really need a car, so I don’t really need gas, and the rent is cheap enough that I’ve got money leftover at the end of the month. Can get my piano tuned twice a year and still have money to go down to the beach for a weekend every so often. It’s not a particularly dangerous neighborhood, and the only thing I’ve got that’s worth anything is my piano, and I’d _love_ to see someone try and get it through the door. So it’s not bad.”

“Does your family live around here?”

“Nah – about an hour away. Part of the reason why I got a job off-campus as well as on campus while I was in college was so I had train money for when I wanted to go home. Did you mind moving so far away from your family?”

“A little. Not much, though. I’ve already done it for a year, and honestly, if I can’t save up the money and vacation time for a trip home, I’ve gotta rethink my lifestyle.” He groans. “I really should unpack now, though. Thanks for waking me up, I’d have slept all damn day otherwise.”

“You’re welcome. Good luck with unpacking.”

“Thanks,” he groans. I hear creaking, a muffled “ow,” an even quieter “fuck,” and then he’s gone.

I play for a little while longer – I can hear him singing if I play something with lyrics – but miracles happen, and after an hour or two, I get tired.

When I wake up from my five-hour nap, it’s to silence. There’s nothing from my neighbor – Jean. He has a name now. Jean. Anyway, his side is silent. Asleep? Unpacking? I decide against practicing piano. If he’s asleep, I don’t wanna wake him up again. I wonder idly when his first day of work is – he sounds exhausted. I hope he has time to get over the time difference before he has to work.

I shower and cook dinner, and there’s still no noise. Maybe he went out?

His car isn’t in the driveway, when I leave for work. Must be out. Probably doesn’t have any groceries.

I should bring him a housewarming present or something. Pie. Everyone likes pie. What if he’s allergic, though? Maybe cookies instead? Everyone likes chocolate, right?

I’m so distracted I play the same song three times in a row before a woman stumbles up to me with a fifty-dollar bill and says she’ll give it to me if I play something different. I’ve never switched songs so fast in my life.

I put Jean out of my mind for the rest of the night – even another huge tip like that wouldn’t make up for the embarrassment of playing the same thing for fifteen minutes straight.

My boss pats me on the back on my way out, their way of expressing comfort for whatever must be awful enough to distract me for fifteen minutes. Hanji’s never been great with emotions – they’re more of a science-y person, a passion that translated into brewing beer. Don’t ask me how. I’ve got no idea. All I know is that they practically did my chem homework for me, senior year, and I owe them my passing grade.

“See you Monday, Marco!” They yell cheerfully after me.

“See you Monday, Hanji,” I call back before I close the door.

Jean’s lights are off, but his car is back in the driveway. I hope he’s asleep. I do my best to lock my door quietly, like somehow the _click_ will wake him up.

Would he start work on a Sunday? Probably not. Maybe I’ll go over tomorrow – or, well, later today. Hell, I could help him unpack if he wants. I don’t mind.

I manage to sleep til eleven, and probably would’ve slept later if it weren’t for the high-pitched cry of a violin.

Thin walls will be my downfall.

I stumble downstairs, nearly falling on my face when the sun hits my eyes through the living room window. Shit, the sun is bright.

I collapse on my piano bench and wait for the violin to turn to something I know, but it doesn’t. It just speaks, speaks words I know but not in an order I recognize. I nearly fall asleep with my head against the lifted lid of my poor piano before I give up and start improvising.

The violin doesn’t even stutter. Was he expecting me? If he started playing specifically to wake me up, I’m moving out.

Maybe this was how he felt yesterday.

Oh. Maybe this is payback.

I play through a couple scales as he does something fast and interesting with his bow, and when he slows down, drawing out an A flat for a good few measures, I do the kind of fingerwork that got me my job. We play for another few minutes, but I can feel him winding down. I speed up, contrasting with the sad, slow wail of his violin, and when we stop on the same beat, he laughs. I find that I’m grinning, too – it’s been a long time since I met someone I could play a duet with like that, let alone someone whose music I can understand so easily.

“We play well together,” Jean comments. I hear the couch creak as he adjusts himself.

“Yeah. Actually – wow, this is out of nowhere – but I was wondering if you wanted some help unpacking? I could come over and help. Could bring some food, too, if you don’t have any.”

Silence for a moment as he considers, and – “Yeah, that would be cool, if you don’t mind helping me unpack all my disorganized shit.”

I laugh. “Sounds like a plan. Gimme twenty minutes, though, I need to shower.”

“Got it.”

I’ve never showered so fast in my _life_.

What am I so excited for? I know next to nothing about him. There’s nothing to be excited about.

But his _violin_.

Music is a language. I couldn’t study with classical music in the background in college because, for me, it spoke. It had a vocabulary, grammar, tone. It may as well have been English, I understood it so well. I can hear the words nestled in the notes, in the tiniest fermata, in the smallest crescendo. And Jean’s music – it has a voice so strong it may as well be screaming to me. _God_ it’s beautiful.

I dress in jeans and one of my nicer t-shirts. I don’t wanna make a bad first impression, but I’ll be unpacking things. Then again, how much does he have? He came here from _France_ , how much did he bring with him?

I deliberate for five minutes before I give up. It doesn’t matter.

I rap my knuckles against the wall when I get downstairs. “Gonna grab food and come over, want anything special?”

The couch creaks. “Nah, whatever you’ve got is –” He cuts off his sentence with a _scream_.

“Jean? Jean, are you okay?” Where’s my cell phone? I fumble it out of my pocket. Keypad, keypad – Christ, he could be dying –

“I’m fine, I’m – sorry, Marco, I don’t think you can come over today.”

“Well, obviously, did you break something? I can call 911 –”

“ _No,_ don’t – don’t worry. I just – scared myself.”

“Jean, you just _screamed_ –”

“Yeah, I know, I scared myself –”

“If all you did was scare yourself, then why can’t I come over there? Jean, what’s –”

“Marco, I’m sorry, I wish I could tell you, but – okay, that’s a lie, I don’t want to tell you. I’m sorry. You’re just going to have to trust me. Please, _please_ don’t call 911.”

I stare at my phone. All three numbers are there – I just have to hit call.

Jean asked me to trust him.

“Is there a dead body in there?” I ask with a laugh. Am I joking or not? The world may never know.

“Heh. No. If there was I’d make you come over here and help me bury it.”

“You’d be open about that, but not whatever’s actually going on?”

There’s no response.

I think he walked away.

Maybe there _is_ a dead body in there.

I only realize how fast my heart’s beating when it starts to slow down.

“Jean?” I try again, but there’s no response.

I’m tempted to ignore him and go over there. Just to check on him, at least.

I close my eyes and sigh. Can’t do anything. Can’t bother him. Gotta trust him.

I head back upstairs and grab my laptop, flipping it open and drumming my fingers against the keys impatiently as it loads. _Schindler’s List Theme sheet music._ Google autocompletes it for me and bam, there at the top of the page, scribd.com, the love of my life and my favorite website.

I close the ad that pops up and –

My hands aren’t big enough for this.

I sigh and keep looking.

Turns out, that’s it. That’s all there is.

Fucking incredible.

I print it out and grab my pencil and twenty minutes later, I’ve got something that passes for playable sheet music. I really, really hope Jean’s violin covers the notes I omitted. It’s not my fault this sheet music is literally impossible to play. I can’t cover an octave-and-a-half stretch. My fingers aren’t stretchable.

I hear _grunting_ when I go back downstairs.

“What are you doing?” I ask as I sit down at the piano.

Jean friggin _squeaks_. Oh my god. “Cleaning, Christ –”

“I’m not usually one to tell people how to live their lives but if you ever have sex on that couch, you should know that I _will_ hear it, and I _will_ tell you to quiet down.”

“Jesus, Marco. I promise I’ll stick to the bedroom.”

“Great.” I plop my hands on the keys and get started.

This song is _impossible to play_.

Literally not possible. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever learned. There are notes where there shouldn’t be notes. Whoever made this sheet music either has the biggest hands on the face of the planet or has never played a piano in their entire goddamn life.

Jean doesn’t help at first, too busy cleaning whatever scared him, but by the time I’ve got the first line down, he’s ready to join in, playing the first few measures with me.

“Jean? Can you play the song? I wanna make sure the notes I cut out are covered by yours.”

“Yeah.”

I close my eyes as he plays, memorizing the words, the notes, the sounds. The musical language he speaks. He’s playing the melody, for the most part, so if I’m going to chop a note, it should be from the melody. I’m the background, in this piece.

“Thank you.”

“Welcome.”

He sits silently while I alter what I fucked with, until I’m left with something reasonably playable that doesn’t cut out anything important.

I can hear him snoring by the time I start playing.

He doesn’t stop.

I switch to Brahms’ Lullaby after a little while.

He stops snoring, but he doesn’t say anything. I didn’t hear the couch creak. Did he change positions or wake up? Probably woke up.

I play for two hours straight, the quietest, calmest songs I know. He hums along quietly with the ones he knows, taps out the beat on the ones in which the beat is strong, and sits silently for the rest.

When I finally run out of music, he thanks me.

“ _Merci beaucoup._ ”

“ _De rien._ ”

He knocks on the wall. The couch creaks, and he’s gone.

 

I don’t hear from him for the rest of the day.

I try to take advantage of my night off and end up binge-watching the whole first season of _House of Cards_. Kevin Spacey is _really_ good at being evil.

 

Jean’s gone, the next day. No car in the driveway, nothing. I go grocery shopping and he’s still not there when I get back.

It’s probably his first day at work.

All the same, I’m worried. _Something_ happened yesterday, something bad, presumably. Is he okay to work? Why am I so worried about a man I’ve never met?

He gets home at 5:30, though. I hear his couch whine as he falls on it. “Marco? You there?”

“Hmm?”

“Can you play _Forest Gump_?”

“Mm.” It takes a minute for me to get into the rhythm, but I catch it quickly enough.

He’s silent when I finish.

I give him a few minutes before tentatively asking “How was work?”

“ _Nnnnnnggggggggggggg._ Not bad.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yeah. It – I just have to get into the swing of it.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah.”

I don’t push.

 

The week passes slowly. I’ve never played _Feather Theme_ as many times as I do in those four days.

Jean doesn’t pick up his violin once.

Then again, I’m not home when he is. Maybe he plays when I’m not there.

But I don’t think he does.

But what the hell do I know? I’m just his neighbor. I don’t even know what he looks like. I’ve only ever heard his voice through the wall. We haven’t exactly had lengthy, deep, soul-searching discussions. I have no idea what he does when I’m not here.

I just get the feeling he’s not in the mood for it right now.

Saturday rolls around, and Jean doesn’t get up til one. In the afternoon.

He listens to me play piano for a couple hours, but doesn’t join in, and I leave for work terrified that I’m going to come home to a dead body – or, anyway, that he’s going to – I don’t _live_ with him, I’m not coming home to – well – anyway.

I worry the whole seven hours at work, and do my best to avoid Hanji’s sympathetic glances.

His house is dark when I come home. I wonder how long he stayed awake before giving up and going back to bed.

I stay up for another hour, dithering around the kitchen, dusting my piano, going upstairs and standing in the unused guest room-slash-office-slash-storage room for twenty minutes straight.

I don’t hear a thing.

Not that I expected to.

And not that I’m stalking him.

I’m just worried at the sudden shift from hunting down his violin to play a duet with a stranger to refusing to pick up his violin for a week.

I sleep straight through the night, though, which is new and interesting, but I wake up at ten, which is new and less interesting.

Eggs. Sausage. Coffee. The kitchen smells like a restaurant by the time breakfast is ready.

I hear Jean when he finally comes into the kitchen, muttering curses. I almost feel guilty for having such a good breakfast when he sounds so exhausted.

He’s gotta be able to hear me clean up, but he doesn’t say anything. Not a morning person, I surmise.

I do him the favor of not playing piano when he’s just woken up. It’s time for me to start on my pile of books, anyway. I’ve been stocking up for a good three years now and never got around to reading them.

I don’t even hear Jean; he must not be in the living room. So I hear them before he does.

I was right. I can identify Connie and Sasha by their voices alone.

They ring Jean’s doorbell and two minutes later I hear them scream “ _Jeanbo!_ ”

Jean doesn’t speak as loudly, and all I hear from him is mumbling.

“Why? Are you not decent?” Sasha shrieks. “I won’t look if you’re not!”

Jean snaps at them, but fuck if I can tell what he’s saying.

“You’ve been here for a week and haven’t texted us, we decided it was time to make sure you weren’t dead,” Connie explains loudly.

Jean says something, and suddenly the volume level drops. I half wish they’d speak louder so I could feel like I was part of it, and not painfully _alone_. I also wish I could just go over there and join them. But I get the feeling Jean wouldn’t be happy with being seen in his pajamas, especially not the first time I meet him.

So I stay in the living room, staring at the third page of _Girl with the Dragon Tattoo_ , straining my ears for a conversation I can’t hear, fighting the urge to go sit in my kitchen and hope Jean’s sitting against the wall where I can hear him.

I am _way_ too attached to him. It’s only been a week and I’m sad he’s not talking to me. Like I’ve got a monopoly on his friendship. It’s pathetic. Rude, too. He has the right to other friends. He’s known them longer than he’s known me, too, and he’s met them face-to-face, like real friends do. I am essentially nothing to him, just a voice on the other side of a wall, and I need to calm down,

An hour later, I’m on the fourth page of the book.

My fingers are itching to move, itching to play piano. I wanna make music. Is there _really_ anything wrong with that? I know he can hear me from his bedroom if I play too loudly, but if I play quietly, it should be fine, right? Right.

Quiet songs only.

Quiet songs. Songs by The Tumbled Sea. Lullabies. Some Mozart. Chopin. Franz Liszt.

They hear it anyway, after a few songs.

I hear Connie and Sasha, and then I hear shushing.

And then I hear the violin.

Jean doesn’t seem to know this song, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all because he’s playing violin again, for the first time all week, and it’s _beautiful_ , it’s better than I remembered, he’s speaking to my piano and it’s a speech people should be forced to memorize in high school. It’s tear-worthy.

He stops when I do, cutting off the cry of the violin in a single beat.

Connie and Sasha start clapping.

“I told you he was good,” Jean says.

I interject “No, Jean’s good, he’s incredible –”

“You can both be good, Jesus,” Connie says.

“Yeah, yeah, that was _great_ , I can’t believe I never heard Jean play a duet in high school!” Sasha adds.

“I barely heard him play _violin_ in high school,” Connie says pointedly. “Apparently he didn’t trust me as much as he trusted you. Dickbag. Ow!”

“Ass,” Jean says fondly. “I _lived_ with her, it was a little hard –”

“So did I!”

“Not _really_ , though.”

“Close enough!”

“Boys, boys,” Sasha says loudly. “No need to fight over me, there’s enough of me for both of you.”

“Thanks, but no thanks, Sash.”

“Just gonna put out there right now that if you ever asked for an open relationship with me and Jean I’d probably be pretty okay with that he’s my best bro and –”

“ _Connie I swear to fuck_ –”

“I’m glad you told me, I was wondering how to broach the topic!”

“I’m glad you approve, baby! Whatdya say, Jeanbo?”

“I’m going to beat the shit out of _both of you_ ,” Jean yells.

“Run, Connie! I’ll hold ‘im back!”

“You don’t have any weapons!”

“But I’ve got my bare hands and that’s enough!”

“Actually, maybe _I_ should run, Christ almighty,” Jean mutters, but I can hear the couch creak as he settles into it.

“Yeah, you probably should,” Connie agrees. “NGL, she’s pretty scary when she’s angry.”

“NGL?” Jean asks.

“Not gonna lie.”

“Did you just say NGL in real life?” Sasha asks.

“Maybe.”

“Why am I marrying you?”

“Because you loooovvveeeeee me.”

“Lies, all lies!”

“But I said NGL!”

“Jean tell him why that doesn’t matter!”

“Because you used an internet abbreviation in real life,” Jean supplies.

“You mean IRL? Ow!”

“No! No, he doesn’t, you meme!”

“My fiancée just called me a meme my life is over –”

“Your life was over when you started using net-speak in real life, doofus –”

“ _What the hell is net-speak_ –”

“ _Internet speech why am I marrying you when you don’t know what –”_

“Why do you keep questioning our engagement, is there something I should know –”

“I’m sorry baby I love you so much –” Sasha shrieks, and then something hits the floor and Jean starts laughing uncontrollably, it’s _beautiful_ , I’ve never heard him laugh like that –

“Why are you laughing at my pain,” Connie yells.

“Because it’s funny,” Jean yells back, and then there’s silence for a second before – “Why are you making out on my floor?”

“Because Sasha tackled me!” Connie protests.

“Oh my god _do this somewhere else_ –”

And ten minutes later they’re out of the house, waving out the car window as they drive away.

Jean groans as he sits on the couch. “Sorry about them, Marco.”

I grin. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, they were really loud…”

“It wasn’t a problem. Really. I swear.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok. Just –”

“Really, Jean. It’s fine. I don’t mind at all.”

He exhales loudly enough that I can hear it.

“You lived with Sasha?” I ask, distracting him, hopefully.

“When I was an exchange student.”

“Sounds like you got along with her well.”

“Sasha and Connie are… two of my best friends, honestly. They know things about me that… they knew me when…” He sighs. “I told them things I didn’t even tell my parents for a long time. Sasha and her family helped me out, a lot. A _lot_. And Connie basically _lived_ with them, so he knew too. The two of them basically taught me English. Brought me into their group of friends. If anyone made fun of me, Sasha beat them into the ground. Listened to me play violin and told me I was good. Convinced me to play a duet with this kid Armin, another violinist, and didn’t even complain when I wouldn’t let them listen – well, until today, but still. And when I went back to France and stopped skyping them and then basically broke off contact a year ago and barely spoke to them – I mean, when I told them I was moving here, they _volunteered_ to pick me up at the airport and move me in. I didn’t even have to ask. And here I am, being an asshole, not even calling them to thank them – shit, I should make plans with them, take them out to dinner or something as thanks – I’m a horrible friend, _fuck_. Sorry for making you listen to this, by the way, I just –” He cuts himself off in a huff.

“Work’s been hard, hasn’t it.”

“No, not hard, just – loud. Really loud. And long.”

“Loud?” How loud does an office building _get_?

“I’m stupid sensitive to noise. Which is weird, cause I play violin, and for the most part, it’s pretty much okay. But after like eight hours of work it’s – too much. And I _wanna_ play, you know? I do. I wanna come home and play violin and I can’t because there’s something wrong with me and I can’t handle it without wanting to rip my skin off.” He pulls in a deep breath and I’m tempted to go knock on his door, give him some earplugs, and put him to bed.

But I don’t.

“What helps?”

“Um. Depends on how bad it is. Sometimes just – putting in headphones and listening to music. Clears away background noise. Sometimes I just have to stare at a wall for like three hours, though. When I was little I used to go outside at night and look at the stars. We lived in the middle of these huge, wide-open fields, and it was _silent_ at night. And you could see _everything_. Stars are – they’re like a marker of silence. Loud places usually have too much light pollution. If I can see the stars, things are okay.” He takes another deep breath. “So. Marco. What was your childhood like?”

I snort. “Long story or short story?”

“I want all the dirty details. I just told you half my life story, I want yours now.”

“Um. Dirty details. Okay. Anxious kid, started having panic attacks in sixth grade.”

“Panic attacks?”

“Yeah. Terrifying, usually confused with a heart attack, feels like I’m gonna die. It feels like… like nothing around me is real, you know? I’m not even sure if _I’m_ real, let alone my surroundings. Feels like I can’t breathe or think. Gets hard to comprehend what people around me are saying, really hard to concentrate enough to answer or do breathing exercises. Therapy helped, a little, but for the most part my family would just sit with me and talk me through it.”

“How do you talk someone through _that_?”

“Uh. My sister liked to – count. In two three four five, out two three four five. After a minute or two, I’d catch on, y’know, start inhaling when she said to and exhaling when she said to. She’d start giving me a longer number to inhale to, once I could focus on her. My brothers would all sit there for twenty minutes straight telling me I was safe, it would be over soon, I was okay, and so on. My mom used to hum to me. Not sure which way worked best, honestly, but they all worked well enough.”

“How often do you have them?”

“Now? Hardly ever. I figured out how to feel them coming on, sometimes. Calmed myself down before I got them. Stopped fearing them so much. They slowed down when I was in high school. Nearly stopped entirely in college – except around finals. My roommates all saw them, one or two of my teachers did. My boss saw them a few times. Haven’t had one since I graduated, though.”

“Shit. Where do you work?”

“Three Walls. A ten-minute walk from here.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

“Any other childhood fun?” He asks.

“Mm. Well, coming out was fun.”

“Coming out?”

“As gay. Parents weren’t big on the whole homosexuality thing until it was me coming out of the closet. It probably helped that I was on the verge of tears by the time I told them, though.”

“I’m bi,” he offers. “My parents were the same. As yours, I mean. They weren’t bi.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Weren’t overjoyed when I came out, either. Got over it, though.”

My mom tearfully informing me that she would always love me was one of the most important moments of my life, honestly. Three years of fear and anxiety had been for nothing, in the end. And I was happy about it. “Yeah. Same here.”

Jean laughs. “Well we’re both just absolute wrecks, aren’t we.”

I chuckle. “Yep.”

“Hey, at least we both grew up into functional human beings.”

“I’m talking to a guy through a wall.”

Jean snorts. “You make a good point.”

I grin and amend that. “On the flip side, I’m talking to a really cool guy through a wall, and I’m pretty happy about it. So I’ll take it.”

There’s silence for a minute, and then: “Did you really just say “on the flip side”?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I did, actually. Why, you got something to say about it?” I ask playfully.

“I – oh my god I don’t know what the right thing is to say can we just pretend I never pointed it out?”

I laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, we can.”

“Thanks.” The couch creaks. “Ok. I gotta go shopping. I’ll be back later, Marco.”

“Have fun.”

He snorts. “Thanks.”

“Welcome.”

He taps the wall and then he’s gone.

I actually get some form of reading done, while he’s gone. I start a load of laundry, too. All of my work clothes and my best suit fit into one load.

I clean the whole kitchen while the first load of laundry is in the washing machine.

I head upstairs when it beeps, tugging my shirt over my head. It’s the first thing in the machine once I move my clothes into the drier, quickly followed by my pants and every article of clothing in my wardrobe.

I practically bounce back downstairs, pulling the blinds shut as I go. I’m not actually naked, but how many people _really_ want to see me in my underwear?

Someone knocks on my door.

I freeze.

They knock again.

Maybe they’ll go away.

I wish I had a peephole.

Why don’t I have a peephole?

“Marco?” Says a tentative voice on the other side of the door.

“Jean?”

“Uh… yeah. I… know tonight’s your night off, right? Was wondering if you wouldn’t mind some company…”

Oh my god. Oh my god. Why did I choose _today_ to do laundry? Why is _today_ my productive day? “Jean? I’m – I’m so sorry. I just stuck all my clothes in the laundry, I literally have nothing but the underwear I’m wearing – oh my god, I’m so sorry, I can’t believe –” I drop my forehead against the door. Why didn’t _I_ think of this? Why didn’t I realize we could hang out tonight? What’s _wrong_ with me? “Oh my _god_ if my clothes weren’t covered in suds already I’d go pull them out.”

“Heh. Um. I’m gonna go inside now so no one can see me talking to the door. Gimme a minute.”

“Gotcha.” Oh my god what am I doing with my life?

He’s there a moment later, knocking on the wall. “Wanna practice _Schindler’s List_?”

“Sure.”

And that’s that.

Even after I hear the washing machine beep, I sit there. And I play.

And I don’t know why.

Because I could shove my clothes in the drier and be dressed within an hour.

But for some reason, I don’t. I don’t _want_ to.

I’m okay with playing through the wall.

And I want to see him. And I want him to see me. And I want him to sit on my couch and play, with no wall between us, with nothing preventing me from hearing the details of his beautiful, _gorgeous_ violin playing.

But it’s easier like this.

For some reason.

 

Sheet music is a pain in the ass to find.

Honestly, if a person’s willing to pay – and I am – it shouldn’t be hard to find.

But I can’t find this goddamn sheet music.

And it wasn’t a problem before. I’d just – not play it. I mean, there’s _violin_ in it, for god’s sake. It’s hard to replace violin with a piano.

But now I know someone who plays violin, and it’s time to learn this damn thing.

So I’m sitting here writing sheet music by ear because “Morning Again” is one of the most _incredible_ songs I’ve ever heard and if Jean and I played it I would _weep_.

I’m still writing when he gets home.

“Working out sheet music is a pain in the ass,” Jean says when I tell him what I’m doing.

“Yeah. That’s putting it lightly.”

I think he falls asleep there on the couch.

I leave a couple hours later. He still hasn’t moved – or at least I didn’t hear him. There’s always a chance I missed it. I was listening to one-second clips of a song on repeat, not listening for movement.

 

By Friday, I’m halfway through.

I’ve done nothing but work and transcribe for the past five days. I ran out for groceries when I realized I had no food, but that was literally the only other thing I did. But still, hitting the halfway mark is worth it.

Kinda.

I have no idea what’s going on.

I can’t figure out the left hand. The violin covers it up. I’m about to shoot myself in the face.

Christ.

I can’t even see straight anymore. I think I hurt my eyes staring at a computer screen so long. I pause the song and the silence is deafening but it’s not, really, it’s muffled by my headphones. Unless it’s not, and I’ve gone deaf. What would I do if I went deaf? How would I play piano? Beethoven did it, but I memorize my songs based on how they sound. If I went deaf, I’d be fucked. If I went blind, I’d probably be fucked. What the fuck am I doing to myself? What if I permanently hurt myself? If I can’t play piano ever again? Oh my god, I can’t breathe. I can’t _breathe_ , I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine, I rip my headphones out and hit the piano keys and it makes noise but I can’t really hear it – did I hit the piano at all? I can’t feel my hands, maybe I didn’t? Maybe I didn’t hear it at all, oh god I can’t breathe and there’s banging on my wall but it’s not real and it stops and it’s definitely not real oh my god it’s not real and then something’s banging on my door and I can hear panting panting like a dog and I can’t breathe and I can’t _breathe_ and I can’t breathe and I can’t breathe and I can’t breathe and I can’t breathe and I can’t breathe and I pull my knees away from my chest but that doesn’t help either so I curl up again and it’s comforting, it’s okay, I am tiny and shaking and breathing and I can hear someone saying “out, 2, 3, 4, 5, in, 2, 3, 4, 5, out, 2, 3, 4, 5,” and – that’s not my sister. “in, 2, 3, 4, 5, out, 2, 3, 4, 5, in, 2, 3, 4, 5…”

I breathe in when Jean says in and out when he says out and the panting stops – me, the panting was me. It was me.

“Marco?” He asks tentatively. “I really hope the silence is you calming down and not, y’know, being dead or anything…”

I close my eyes. Answering is hard.

I knock on the wall, though.

“I… one knock for yes, two for no. You’re okay and not dying, you just don’t want to talk?”

Bless him for making ‘yes’ easier than ‘no.’ I knock once.

“Oh, thank god. Do you need me to keep counting?”

Two knocks.

“Do you want me to come over?”

Two knocks.

“Yeah, sorry, I tried to get in earlier, but the door was locked… probably for the better, though. Um. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m shit at comfort… I could play violin, if you want?”

One knock.

I hear the comforting creak of the couch and, a tentative whine and a squeak later, the violin starts up, with its high, clear, shrieking cry, splitting the air like a knife, and as real as noise can get.

 _Schindler’s List. The Feather Theme. Clair de Lune._ All the songs he loves, the songs I love.

I sit up after a few minutes. I’m not quite sure when I got on the floor, but my hip hurts a little with the dull throbbing heat that indicates a bruise is forming and I probably fell.

The clock says it’s 5:51. Jean must’ve come home while I was mid-panic.

I close my eyes against the wave of affection that splashes over me. Shit, I’ve never met him in person. I’ve only spoken to him through a wall. I’ve spoken more to him in music notes than in English and French combined. I’ve barely known him for two weeks.

But he plays violin for half an hour until I ask him to stop, and I know he’s sensitive to noise, and I know he probably wouldn’t have played if I hadn’t asked him, and I don’t know what he’s going through and he doesn’t know what I’m going through but he cares enough to try and –

He lives right there, but it feels like he’s on the other side of the world.

“Are you really going to work?” Jean asks. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No.”

“Dude, no offense, but you’re not exactly necessary to the bar’s operation. If you don’t go and don’t have a replacement it’s not like they’re going to have to shut down.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Marco, stay home. Please? I won’t even talk to you, if that’s what you want. Just – stay home. You shouldn’t go to work for seven hours, not right after a panic attack. There’s no way that’s okay. You’ve been working there for years, you said your boss saw you have a panic attack, they’d understand, right? It’s not like you’re in danger of being fired?”

“I’m going. I – need it. It’s more jarring to lose my routine than to go through with it. If it’s too much, I’ll come home, okay?”

“Christ, Marco.”

“I gotta go get dressed.”

He doesn’t respond.

I take it as an affirmation and head upstairs.

My hands are shaking like crazy. This is absurd. I can’t believe I had a panic attack. It’s been – months. Years? A long time. I forgot how suddenly they can come up, how little reason they need to occur.

Maybe I _won’t_ finish _Morning Again_.

I head out the door. The sun is setting, but it’s still light out, and even with the light breeze that curls over my face, it’s warm out. It’s comforting. I think we’re done with the cold, for the summer. Done with the air that bites at skin. Hallelujah.

“Marco!” Hanji yells when I walk through the door. “Marco, I have a favor to ask. Well, not really a favor, just kind of. Well, honestly, it’s more like I’m doing _you_ a favor, but – I’m hiring a new pianist for the afternoon! He’s coming in tomorrow at 7. He’s taking your shift. I want you to come in, for a little while at least, and tell me if he’s good enough. I’ll pay you for your full seven hours, and I’m giving you free drinks, so all you have to do is tell me if you’d get drunk at three in the afternoon if this kid was playing, okay?”

“I – yeah. Okay.”

They sweep me up in a hug. “Perfect! Thank you!”

“Welcome.”

They glare at me suspiciously. “Are you okay?”

I’m not putting on a good enough act. “Yeah, I’m fine!” I plaster a grin on my face.

They don’t look like they believe me.

“I – I’ve been trying to transcribe this one song, and it’s been a pain in the ass. Kinda brought me down.”

They don’t seem to buy that, either, but it’s enough. They let me go to my piano, in its little corner of the bar where it’s been since I walked in here a nervous junior looking for a job. This bar is practically mine, now. I’ve been working here nearly as long as it’s been open.

The night is long and slow, and as the number of people increases Hanji suggests that I go home.

“It’s a Friday night!”

“Exactly. It’s getting loud. They probably can’t hear you anyway.”

“You always say that’s why I _should_ be here Friday nights. I add class to the noise.”

“Well, that’s not true today.”

“It’s _never_ true, you just like having me here.”

“That is _not_ the point. Are you arguing with me, Bodt?”

I groan. That’s it. That’s the point at which all argument is futile. When they pull out the last name. “All right, all right, I’m going. I’m going.”

They grin. “Good. See you tomorrow!”

“See you tomorrow, Hanji.”

It feels strange, going home so early, but by the time I walk through my door I’m overjoyed to be home. I practically collapse into bed.

I don’t get up til 12.

Jean barely talks and I get the feeling it’s because of his noise thing. I knock on the wall around 2, and after a minute, he knocks back, but that’s the extent of it. The knock feels friendly, though. Like a little hello. A tiny admission of our respective problems and continuing friendship.

I leave for work later than usual – half an hour, maybe. The kid should have time to get set up, to not worry about someone staring over his shoulder while he’s warming up and getting into the swing of things.

Hanji doesn’t mind, of course, hugging me and grabbing me a seat at the bar.

I listen to the kid play for a little while before I go over to him and introduce myself. He looks nervous. It’s adorable.

“Thomas,” he introduces himself as he shakes my hand.

“Marco. You’re doing great, from what I can tell. Um. I know my biggest worry, when I started, was that my repertoire was too small, but honestly, if you know ten or fifteen songs, you can mostly just play them in a loop. Fewer, if they’re long. And if anyone asks you to play a song that you don’t know, don’t worry about it, Hanji doesn’t care.”

“Thanks, Marco.”

“You’re welcome.”

Hanji brings me my first beer when I go back to the bar. “How is he? I like him. He reminds me of you when you were younger. I think he’ll do fine.”

I grin. “Why’d you make me come in, if you already decided you’re keeping him?”

“I didn’t _know_ I was giving him the job,” they scoff. “Not until two minutes ago. He’s adorable, though. He’s getting the job.”

“He’s good. Good choice.”

“Thank you.”

No one sits down next to me for forty-five minutes, by which point I’m only on my third beer. I don’t feel like getting puke-drunk while I’m at work, regardless of whether or not Hanji would care.

The dude who sits next to me is a little awkward, sitting carefully and asking if I mind him sitting there.

“Nah, you’re fine.”

“Cool, thanks.” He orders a shot of tequila.

Hanji brings me one, too. They waggle their eyebrows at me, tossing shifty glances at the guy next to me, giving me a grin that means _I’m gonna get you laid tonight_.

I sigh.

The guy next to me keeps staring at Thomas.

I use the opportunity to check him out. Hanji’s not known for her ability to pick out guys I’d like, and they’ll usually back off if I consider it before discarding the idea. They tried to set me up with this guy from my university, once – Reiner. Huge, muscly, loud. Not my kind of guy.

This man, though.

He’s more my type.

Thin. Maybe not _thin_ so much as _wiry_. A couple inches shorter than me – although I’d have to stand up to check. His clothes are loose, but not particularly saggy. His hair – it’s a little weird, I’ve gotta admit. He’s got an undercut, which is great, but the bottom half is way, _way_ darker than the top part. It’s a cool effect, though. And, for once, Hanji got it right. I can see myself going to town on this guy’s collarbones.

I throw back my shot when he does. Salt, tequila, lime. He makes the same face I do. It’s cute.

“He’s got a good repertoire,” Hanji says when they come over with two new shots.

I nod.

“I know him,” the guy next to me says as he pushes money towards Hanji. “He’s got the _best_ repertoire. He’s _incredible_.”

Hanji nods. “Probably true.” They slide the guy’s cash back towards him. “It’s been paid for.”

He blinks slowly at them. “Really? By who?”

Hanji nods at me, and I take my cue. “Hi. You’re cute.”

Hanji laughs, but the guy flushes. “You – don’t have to –”

I shrug. “It’s no problem. No strings attached unless you want there to be.”

He throws back his shot. “There… could be. Strings attached. I wouldn’t mind.”

Salt, tequila, lime.

“I only live a few minutes away,” I say. I think.

Salt, tequila, lime.

Salt, tequila, lime.

 

All I taste is grossness. And dryness. Is dryness a thing that I can taste? I decide it is.

I debate getting up, but my head is _killing me_.

I’m going to _die._

And then I’m going to _kill Hanji_.

How much did they let me drink last night? Christ almighty. I feel like shit.

Something rubs against my arms.

That’s – unusual.

There is something _in_ my arms.

That’s a problem.

I open my eyes slowly, squinting against whatever light makes it through the curtains, and examine the head pressed against my neck. Careful consideration reveals a couple things: I am literally entangled with another person, and I remember their hair from last night.

Well, this is awkward.

I scooch backwards a little, trying not to wake him up. What the hell are my legs doing? I don’t wanna kick him awake, that’s nothing short of _rude_. I pick the covers up, slowly, trying not to shock him with cold air against his skin, and –

There’s – more than I expected. And also less.

I carefully pull myself away, untangling my legs from his slowly, and get to my feet.

The world spins.

I wait before I turn around.

There is something on my floor and I have no idea – oh. No. I do. That’s a packer. There should be – yep, there’s his binder. I hunt around the room until I find his shorts and underwear and place his clothing in a neat pile so he doesn’t have to search for it before I open my dresser drawers and grab clothes of my own. I really hope he stays asleep. I need a shower and a cooler full of water, and if he feels anything like I do, he needs it too. Probably shouldn’t go running out of the house hungover this badly. Also, he probably doesn’t know where he is. Shouldn’t be wandering around here without directions.

There’s not one but _two_ used condoms in the bathroom trashcan. Why are they in the _bathroom_? I have a trashcan in my room. And _two_ of them, Jesus Christ.

I try to shower fast, but by the time I’ve drunk half the water that came out of the showerhead and gotten myself dressed and out of the bathroom, he’s already half-clothed.

He squeaks when I walk in, and I turn around and walk right back into the hallway.

“I’m – gonna make eggs. You can shower if you need to. I’ll make eggs for you, if you want?” I say to the door.

“I – no,” he whispers. I can’t blame him. “No thanks. Sorry. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Take your time.”

I head downstairs.

One-night stands are _awkward_.

I don’t even remember his name, honestly. If he even told me.

Jesus. I’m gonna have to go to work tomorrow and Hanji’s gonna give me _the look_ and I’m going to have to tell them that yes, I got laid. Twice. And I don’t remember any of it. And I’m never drinking again.

The guy comes downstairs just seconds later, looking nervous as all hell and a little scared.

“Um, do you – need a ride home or anything? Back to the bar?” I ask as he heads towards the door. “Or water?”

He shakes his head once, and looks like he’s regretting it.

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.” He opens the door without unlocking it – did I leave it unlocked overnight? Shit. I’m blaming Hanji for this.

“Do you need directions?”

“No, thank –”

He stops. Stands in the doorway. Takes two quick steps out and turns around, slowly. Stares at me.

“Are you all right?” I probe.

“M-Marco?” He says nervously.

I frown. “I – yeah, how’d you know?”

“I –” he buries his face in his hands. “I’m Jean.”

Jean? Why is he introducing himself _now_ , when –

Oh my god.

“Holy shit.”

“I – I thought you said you played piano? At the bar?” Jean says through his hands.

“I _do,_ I just – last night – my manager had someone else take my shift, wanted me to see if he was any good – I – oh my _god_ Jean, why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”

He peeks at me through his fingers, and now I’m _looking_ at him. This is him. This is Jean. This is the violin player, the man who calmed me down after a panic attack, the guy I’ve been trying to meet for two weeks now. I can’t help but try and match every word to this mouth, every note to those hands, every knock to those knuckles, every couch creak to that body. The name to the face. _Jean_.

“What?” He mutters defensively.

“Hmm?”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I – oh, shit, I’m staring, aren’t I. Sorry, it’s just – wow, I know what you _look_ like now. Holy shit. I – you probably wanna go get dressed, shower, whatever. I’m taking up your time. Just – when you’re ready, if you wanna come over, I’ll be here, okay?” He’s looking more and more terrified by the minute. “If – if you want. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. Seriously.”

He nods.

I wave and step back inside and shut the door, and seconds later I hear his door shut.

I knock on the wall. “I’ve got coffee, too.”

He knocks once.

Holy shit. Holy shit. I’ve met Jean. I know what he looks like. I –

_Holy shit I had sex with Jean._

Oh my god.

Oh my god, that was _not_ how our first meeting was supposed to go.

I don’t even _remember_ most of it.

I down a glass of water as I try to think back, but all I’m getting is a headache and jack shit. Nothing. I remember Hanji, I remember tequila shots, and I remember Jean, staring at Thomas from next to me. Well. He thought he was staring at me. I wince. He clearly didn’t want to talk to me – he didn’t say a word to Thomas, didn’t even try. And then he woke up in my _bed_. Oh my god. Oh my god, poor Jean. Jesus.

I don’t even know how to make him comfortable. He was staring at me like I was thirty feet tall and wielding a mace. Maybe I shouldn’t have invited him over? He didn’t seem comfortable at all.

There’s a hesitant knock on the door.

I nearly trip over my feet trying to get there.

Jean looks a little better than he did earlier, with clean clothes and damp hair, but he looks incredibly nervous.

“Ah – hi. Come in. I didn’t put the coffee on yet, I didn’t know how long you’d take and I didn’t want it to get cold.” Well, that and I forgot. But he doesn’t need to know that.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

I put the coffee on. Is his hangover making his noise sensitivity thing worse? “I’ll be back in a second,” I tell him. He nods and I head into the living room. I’ve gotta have a pad of paper and a pen somewhere, right?

I find one in my folder of sheet music, covered in notes about songs and how best to memorize them and where I’m likely to fuck up. I rip off the first sheet and on the clean sheet below I write: _would it be better if we wrote stuff on here instead of ~~tla~~ talking?_

I put it in front of Jean and wait.

The grin that spreads across his face is _perfect_.

He scribbles _yes!_ so fast I’m surprised his hand doesn’t cramp up, and then passes the pen and paper back to me.

 _How do you like your coffee?_ I ask.

_Milk + sugar, I can make it tho if you tell me where it is._

_Nah I’ve got it._

_Thank you._

I can hear him writing as I pour the coffee, and when I bring it back to the table, he pushes the pad towards me.

_~~Sorry I~~ _

_~~I didn’t mean to~~ _

_~~I didn’t know~~ _

_Sorry for acting weird earlier I was ~~kinda~~ really surprised ~~and~~ and hungover and I kinda panicked _

Oh my god, is he really apologizing? _Don’t worry about it, anyone would’ve panicked. It was a weird situation._

I push the pad back towards him and he frowns.

Five full minutes later, he hesitantly pushes the pad back towards me. I can see all the places he started to write something, but it’s scribbled over so darkly I don’t think I could read it even if I held it up to the light. The only legible words are: _thank you._

 _You’re welcome_.

He smiles tentatively at me, and I grin back.

We drink our coffee in silence. He gulps down the first half, but ends up staring into it, blank-faced, watching it swirl. I end up staring at him, probably being really creepy, examining his dark eyes – brown? Hazel? I can’t tell – and his hair and his face and no, no, I’m being _really_ creepy. This is weird.

I take the pad and write _want breakfast? I make awesome scrambled eggs._

He jumps when I push it towards him. _If u don’t mind making it? I can probably help I think_

_I make mine with ham, cheese, and broccoli. Sound good? You can help chop, if you want._

_Sounds great_ , he writes.

I silently pull out the ham and the broccoli. He locates the cutting board and my sharpest knife on his own.

It’s weird, standing next to someone quietly like this. I come from an Italian family. We talked to each other nonstop. This is totally outside my realm of experience. It should be awkward. But it’s – not. In a strange way.

Jean chops the broccoli finely, nudging me gently and saying “Size?” I decide it’s fine and nod, and he continues chopping. Chops the ham the same way. Tosses it in the frying pan when I motion for it. Hunts around for plates, getting them to me just in time. Grins when I laugh. And it’s okay. It works. I know what he’s asking for when he motions stabbing his plate, and grab him a fork. He knows what I’m asking when I point at the orange juice, and nods.

 _What’s your favorite color?_ I write when we sit down.

_Purple. Yours? These are really good btw_

_Red._

We spend an hour pushing the pad of paper back and forth before Jean says he’s going to get his violin.

I nod, he grins, and five minutes later he’s standing next to me, eyes on my fingers, poised to play.

“1, 2, 3, 4 –”

 _Feather Theme_ sounds a billion times better without the wall between us.

Jean doesn’t end, though, going straight into something that makes his violin sound more like a fiddle than anything else. I join him, watching the grin spread across his face as we race towards an unknown endpoint, faster and faster and faster until I have to look away from him to watch my fingers speed over the keys, keeping pace with his frantic bow, laughing as we go on, laughing harder when Jean’s violin screams its displeasure and we have to stop.

“Shit,” Jean says. “We’re good.”

“We are freaking incredible.”

“Freaking? Did you really just say freaking instead of fucking?”

“There’s an important difference between the two, okay? You can’t use them interchangeably.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Nope. Nope. Definitely not.”

“Dweeb.”

“Nerd.”

“If either of us is a nerd, it’s you.”

“No, I’m a dweeb.”

“That too.”

I laugh, he laughs, and he fidgets for a minute before clearing his throat as he rubs his neck.

“Um, I’m really sorry about – last night. I. Uh. Didn’t mean for our first meeting to be like – that. At all. I – was trying to not make it like that, but I – failed. Really, really badly. Um. Thanks for. Being so nice. About all of this.”

I consider brushing it off again, but this is like the billionth time he’s apologized. “Jean? I don’t know if you remember anything, or if something bad happened, but I honestly don’t remember any of last night. Like. I don’t even remember leaving the bar. So whatever you’re apologizing for – you can just, I don’t know, pretend it was a bad dream or something. As far as I’m concerned, you’re my awesome neighbor-slash-friend whom I’ve been wanting to meet since you moved in, and you’re just as cool as I hoped you’d be. So. Our first meeting’s going great, and I’m just happy I finally met you.”

“Even with – how the morning started?”

“Even with how the morning started. Seriously.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I – found my stuff in a pile. Did I really do that while I was drunk?”

“No, I did it this morning. Figured you wouldn’t want to search around a stranger’s room for your clothes.”

He stares at me for a minute before groaning and dropping his head into his hands. “You’re so – goddamn – _nice_! What the fuck, Marco!”

“I – yeah, I _like_ being nice.”

“Jesus Christ I didn’t expect this.”

“What did you expect?”

He pulls his head out of his hands so he can rake his fingers through his hair again. “Not – this. You. What even _are_ you? You’re like – some – alien. From Planet Nice. In the solar system of Nice. In the Nice universe. Who the fuck wakes up hungover and spends hours being nice to the asshole they woke up with, what the _fuck_ , Marco? Are you _blushing_? That’s adorable, why are you blushing, oh my god, what the fuck?”

“Well – thank you, but – it’s no big deal, seriously.”

He huffs.

“Wanna play _Clair de Lune_?”

“Yeah.”

 

And that’s how it goes.

Hanji gives me _the look_ , Monday night, and they’re already ruffling my hair before I even tell them to drop it.

I don’t tell them about the rest of it, though, on Monday or any other day.

For a week, Jean comes over after work, before I leave. He seems to be doing better at work – on Monday and Tuesday, he brings his violin with him. He helps me transcribe _Morning Again_ , and it goes way faster with his help. On Wednesday and Thursday, he doesn’t bring his violin, and we sit in peaceful silence. I get some reading done. He stares at the wall. I tell him he can borrow one of my books if he wants, but he just shakes his head. Writes a little _no thanks :)_ on the pad of paper. I start keeping it in the living room. He uses it a lot. He’s a big fan of smiley faces. Sometimes he draws little smilies on paper instead of actually smiling. On Friday, he doesn’t come over at all, just knocks on the wall. I knock back and wonder if he’s just sitting there, alone, silent, staring at a wall until he feels better.

I definitely don’t tell Hanji about how I nearly went in for a hug on Monday, and a kiss on Tuesday, and seriously forgot that he wasn’t my boyfriend on Wednesday. I’m not telling them about how on Thursday he stared at the wall while tapping his fingers idly on his thigh and I stared at him and listed all the reasons why it’s totally unrealistic and unkind and thoughtless of me to ask for more out of him. And I will never tell _anyone_ about how fucking _lonely_ I got on Friday. After three years of living by myself, I got lonely because my nearly-silent neighbor didn’t come over. Yeah, that’s just embarrassing.

Saturday comes, and Jean’s chopping broccoli as I beat eggs.

“Sasha and Connie are coming over later. If they get too loud, just tell me, okay?”

“Sure. You can bring them over here, if you want,” I offer. “I mean, I’ve got work tonight, but you’re all welcome until I leave.”

“I – really? Are you sure you’re up for that kind of commitment? I mean, they’re loud, and Sasha’s always hungry. Always. No matter what.”

I shrug. “Sure.”

“You’re an angel, Marco.”

I raise my arms like wings and flap them.

“What are you doing?”

“Flying. Like an angel.”

“Oh my god, Marco.”

“You started it!”

He throws a piece of broccoli at me. I catch it and toss it back at him. He catches it in his mouth.

“Damn. Nice.”

He gives me a thumbs up.

Sasha and Connie arrive a couple hours later, Jean running to open the door before they can ring his doorbell.

“Wow, gettin’ all cozy with Marco?” Sasha asks with a wink that reminds me strongly of Hanji.

“No, Marco’s getting cozy with Jean,” Connie supplies.

“I’m going to sew your mouths shut,” Jean threatens as he shuts the door behind them. I doubt they hear him, though, considering how fast they converge on me.

“So _you’re_ Marco!”

“Sash’s been talking about you nonstop for like a year now.”

“You haven’t even known he _existed_ for a year,” Jean mutters. He’s bright red.

“It’s good to meet you. Jean’s told me good things about you.”

Sasha whips around. “You _do_ love us!” She screams, tackling him. He grabs her as she falls on him, and shit he looks annoyed but he’s hugging her back anyway and I want a hug too. I want a Jean hug. I will also never ask for one, but that’s not the point.

Sasha finds her way into the kitchen so fast I don’t even see her move. One moment, she’s there. The next, she’s got a potato in her hands. A raw potato.

Connie doesn’t even blink an eye.

I make a mental note to lock up my freaking kitchen before she comes over next time.

Within an hour, Connie drops enough hints about Jean’s violin that Jean goes and gets it, rubbing at his neck like he’s trying to start a fire.

Jean sits on the edge of the couch and I take my place on the bench and we play through _Butterfly Waltz_ , Jean’s violin shivering through the deep notes meant for the cello. He plays through some Lindsey Stirling song I don’t know, and I improvise a background for him. I play a song _Stargaze_ while he improvs for me.

It’s almost a surprise, when Connie and Sasha clap. I keep forgetting they’re there.

They stay for a few hours, only leaving when Jean informs them that I have work in an hour so they can’t stay. Connie starts saying something about just going over Jean’s house instead, but Sasha talks over him, grabbing Jean into a hug while babbling out a “thank you” to me and saying something about “doing this again some other time.” Connie hugs Jean and gives me a fist bump and they’re gone.

“Kicking them out, huh?” I ask dryly.

“Loud,” Jean says as he sits on my couch.

I sit down next to him and he flops over until his head is in my lap. I end up petting his hair, running my fingers through the short, soft strands, slightly surprised that he’s willing to get so _close_ to me. I figured he wasn’t big on physical contact.

He whines at me when I tell him I have to get up for work. “You can stay, if you want.”

He doesn’t bother to respond. Just closes his eyes and lies there like he’s dead. I bend down to kiss him – aaaaand back up and walk away before he realizes what I did. Shit, it’s like I _want_ to freak him out.

I leave fifteen minutes later. Jean waves at me as I walk out the door.

I get seven hours to myself to think.

I’d love to tell myself I don’t like Jean – at least, not past friendship. _Fake it til ya make it_ and all that. But I went straight past the crush phase into the full-blown fiancé phase. I’ve _had_ crushes. I’ve _had_ boyfriends. Jean isn’t – like that. There’re no butterflies. My heart doesn’t beat faster when he’s near or flutter when he touches me. I don’t stumble over my words.

He makes me feel peaceful.

“Whatcha smiling about?”

“ _Shit_ , Hanji – don’t you have a bar to watch over?”

“They’ll survive for two minutes, talk fast. Is he cute? Is he the guy from the bar last week? He was cute.”

“ _Hanji_.”

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

“It’s –” A horde of college kids walk in. “Gotta go, Hanji. You’ve got a bar to take care of.”

They glare at me as they head back to the bar.

Jean would like them, if he met them in the right environment. Definitely not here. He’d hate it here. Too loud. Too much to process. Maybe in my house? Actually, Hanji would probably just bring up awkward topics. Maybe they shouldn’t meet at all.

Christ, how hard is it for him to meet people? What would he do if he met my family? Would he survive? Shit, I just want to curl up around him and feel him relax for once. He’s always so _tense_ , jaw tight and neck stiff and there’s gotta be something up with the right side of his neck, he’s always rubbing it after work. I want to make _him_ as peaceful as he makes _me_ feel.

How would I even manage that, though? I don’t think my presence does for him what it does for me. Music is loud, so that’s out. Taking him out to a club or a bar would have the opposite effect.

I leave the bar fast at the end of the night. Hanji’s gonna hunt me down Monday night, but that’s okay.

The nights are warmer now, a little balmy, but nice. This portion of the city is dim – well, compared to the rest of the city – and on a clear night like this, I can see a few stars. It’s hard to look at them, though – can’t exactly stand in the middle of the sidewalk staring at the sky. Someone would murder me out of pure annoyance.

 _Oh_.

I walk home grinning.

Jean’s still on my couch when I get home, but it looks like he moved.

Should I wake him up? Move him? I just… “Jean?”

He blinks his eyes open, and he’s instantly awake, sitting up sharply, an apology halfway out of his mouth before I can quiet it.

“It’s fine, don’t worry. Do you want to stay here? Hell, you can share my bed if you want – that’s too much, isn’t it. You can go.”

He chews on his lip and rubs at his neck. “I – think I’m gonna go home. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. I don’t mind you being here when I’m not.”

“No, I –” He droops a little, but tosses me a little smile. “Thanks.”

I grin back. “No problem.”

“Marco?”

“Yeah?”

He’s rubbing his neck again. “Uh. Can I hug you?”

“I – yeah, yeah, of course!” Oh my _god_ he’s asking like I might say _no_.

He looks like I just dumped the world’s responsibilities on him.

Ok, I was right, he’s not good with physical contact. I take the lead, wrapping my arms around his shoulders so he doesn’t have to wrap his around my neck. Hopefully it’ll feel more friendly, less intimate. I rub gentle circles on his back, and after a second or two, I can feel him relax, hear him sigh. His arms come up to wrap around my waist.

I can feel his grip loosening after a minute, and I squeeze him once before letting him go. I hope that’s enough that he knows that I’m letting go because I know he wants to, and not because he held on too long. Or I’m just reading too much into it.

Either way, he looks calm when he says good night, grabs his violin, and leaves. He knocks on the wall, I knock back, and that’s it for him.

I stay up doing some research.

 

He comes over around twelve on Sunday, and dances around my kitchen when he says there’s only one week until his trial period is over.

I grin as he sashays across the room. “Trial period?”

“Work. I’ve been working with like, eighty other people, because for the first month they can’t trust me to translate ads and write emails on my own, apparently. After that, I get my own cubicle, and only like two phone calls a day, and I barely have to talk to people, and I’ve only got a week left of this before I get to that and I am _so excited you have no goddamn idea._ ”

I hum in understanding. “Thing’s’ll be way easier for you once you’ve got space to yourself, right?”

“Yeah! Shit, Marco, I’ll be able to play violin again. Properly. For real. And I’ll be able to focus and _do_ things, Marco, like a _real human being_.”

I take my opportunity. “We should celebrate.”

He flushes. “No, it’s not that big a deal, shit –”

“Not like a party,” I reassure him, “just – there’s someplace I wanna take you. I think you’ll like it.”

“Where?”

Ruin the surprise or tell him? “Mm. I don’t wanna ruin the surprise. But I promise, it’s only an hour’s drive away, you won’t have to pay a thing, it’s not loud, there won’t be anyone there, and you won’t have to do much. I’ll drive, too. We’ll have to go at night – Saturday night, remind me to tell Hanji I’m taking the day off – and I’ll be wide awake. Won’t even have to get a hotel room or bring anything.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “This sounds like something you’ve been planning.”

“It – kinda is. But only since, like, ten hours ago.”

He rubs his neck. “Are you _sure_ it won’t be loud? Cause like, just because you don’t think something’s loud doesn’t mean _I_ won’t think it’s loud.”

“It should be dead silent, actually.”

“Are we going to a cemetery?”

I should’ve just looked up cemeteries. They’d’ve served the same purpose. Oh well. “That – would’ve made things a lot easier, actually. But no.”

“Marco, are you taking me somewhere to kill and bury me?”

I laugh. “That sounds really bad, doesn’t it. No. No, I’m not. I swear.”

He doesn’t look fully convinced.

“Jean – can you trust me? I – sorry, I know that’s a lot to ask when you’ve barely known me for a few weeks, but – I honestly think you’ll be all right with this. And if you’re not, we can leave. Immediately. Just say the word. I won’t be offended. I won’t be annoyed.”

He rubs his neck, and I feel instantly guilty. I’m making him anxious.

“Nevermind, we don’t have to go. Forget I –”

“No, no, I – I trust you,” he says as he blushes bright red. “It’s just – that – I – um. How long will we be there?”

I try not to show how happy I am that he _trusts me_ , Jean trusts me. Holy fuck. “Uh. There’s no specific time frame? We could stay for five minutes or five hours, it’s kind of up to you.”

“And it’s an hour away?”

“Yeah.”

He chews on his lip. “See, the thing is, if… things… are normal… I’ll be on my period.”

“Your – oh.” I blink at him. He shrinks under my gaze. Shit. I have to say something. What’s the best way to make him feel better? I’m not answering fast enough. “Well, uh, how long is best for you, then? We can stop somewhere on the way back, and you can – uh – change your – pad? Tampon?” Fuck. Am I saying the wrong thing? I feel like I’m saying the wrong thing. “You can tell me whatever you’re most comfortable with, honestly. If you wanna put it off, we can totally do that too – and, I mean, like I said, no one’ll be there, so – you won’t have to worry about that.” What’s _that_? What am I even referring to? Shit, I’m freaking out over nothing. It’s just a period. I only need to make a big deal out of it if he does.

“Um – I’ll – be fine if we only stay a few hours. And yeah. If we stay that long, I’ll need a bathroom at some point. Thing is – it’s – kinda difficult for me to use public bathrooms? People tend to notice if you open a pad in a guy’s bathroom.”

He’s talking normally, but his fingers are drumming frantically against the countertop.

“Jean? We can totally postpone it. Or we just don’t have to stay that long. We could get a motel room. Um. All else fails, it’s ten minutes away from my mom’s house, if I call and tell her we’ll be around there she’ll leave the door open, we can stay there for the morning. She’ll even make us breakfast. All my siblings are out of the house now, and I can take the attention off you, you won’t have to talk to them.”

“I – I don’t want to stop you from seeing your mom,” he says nervously.

“Jean, I’m serious. This is up to you. I could see my mom every weekend if I wanted.”

“I’d rather just stay for two or three hours, if that’s okay,” he says quietly.

I grin. “Sounds perfect to me!”

“A-are you sure?”

“Yeah!”

He doesn’t look convinced.

“Jean, do you mind if I give you a hug?”

He shakes his head, and I clear the distance between us and wrap my arms around him. “Listen, I’m serious. This is something I want to do with you, but it’s pointless if it makes you anxious. If you want to call it off or postpone it, we can totally do that. If you wanna be alone this weekend, that’s cool too. And I won’t be offended, and I won’t stop talking to you, and I won’t get annoyed. If you change your mind Saturday five minutes before we leave, we won’t go. It’s not a problem at all. I promise.”

Like before, I can feel him relax as I rub his back. “Marco?”

“Mm?”

“You’re – I – thank you.”

“No problem, Jean.”

 

He spends the rest of the day and the rest of the week practically attached to me. It’s like once he broke the barrier between us, he forgot to build it up again. He falls asleep on my shoulder, he hugs me – he always asks first, but he hugs me. Laughs and kicks me – gently – when I mess up the same measure of _Schindler’s List_ for the third time in a row. Taps me when he wants the pad of paper. Smacks me when I make a bad joke. It’s killing me. I want to kiss him every time.

5:30 becomes the highlight of my day, the moment when Jean walks in, hardly bothering to knock anymore. It’s like every cell in my body takes a deep breath, all at once, and suddenly, everything’s okay. He’s here and he’s collapsing next to me and dropping his head on my shoulder, letting out a bone-deep groan while I rub his neck. I was right, he’s really tense on the right side, his muscles forming a knot that probably hurts like hell. I want to kiss him everywhere, all the time. Want him to drop onto my couch, put his head on my shoulder, and his hand in mine. Want him to climb into my lap and stay there. Want him.

Hanji’s perfectly fine with me taking the day off, so when Saturday comes around, the only variable is Jean. He wakes up late, and when he comes over, he’s huddled in a sweatshirt and sweatpants.

I glance out the window. It’s well into May, and warm out. Not particularly hot, but definitely warm enough that sweatshirts are too much.

“Want tea instead of coffee? I’ve got. Um. Chamomile? There’s some raspberry stuff in here, too.”

“Coffee, please.”

“Got it. Eggs?”

He makes a face. “Do you have, like, cereal? Or something that doesn’t smell? Sorry, it’s just… eggs… aren’t sitting well with me. Today.”

“Mini Wheats?”

“Perfect.”

“Want painkillers?”

“Already took some. Waiting for them to kick in.”

He gets better as the day wears on, going home after a few hours to change whatever he’s got down there, shedding the sweatshirt and returning in a tshirt.

“Are you sure you’re up for tonight?” I ask as 8 nears.

“I’m going.”

“Jean, you don’t have to –”

“I’m going.”

I run my hand through his hair as soothingly as I can. “All right.”

Jean goes home one more time to change his stuff, and I take the opportunity to run upstairs and grab a couple beach towels, the ones meant for people to lie down on.

Jean stares at me when I meet him outside. “Towels? Are we going swimming?”

“No. No. Definitely not.”

He relaxes. “I was about to smack you. Like, shit, _sharks_.”

“What about them?”

“They’re attracted to blood!”

“Oh! Oh my _god_ no, we’re not going anywhere near the ocean, I promise.”

“Oh, thank _god_.”

He’s silent in the car, watching the last of the sunset out the window. There’s hardly any light left; just enough to faintly outline his face. Before we make it even halfway through the drive, he’s asleep again. I almost feel guilty for driving when every bump makes his head hit the window.

He wakes up a few minutes before we get there, though. “Where are we?” He mumbles.

“Uh. Farmland and forests, mostly. But there’s a place that was bought by developers like, two weeks ago – a new strip mall is supposed to go up. But they don’t have any permits yet, so it’s just this enormous, untouched, grassy, overgrown field.”

“Why are we here?”

I grin at him.

“Okay, so I was kind of joking, but seriously. Are you planning on burying me here?”

“Just wait a minute, okay?”

He hums. “I trust you.”

I smile.

Two minutes later, I pull over to the side of the road, reach into the backseat, grab the towels, and step out of the car. Jean’s waiting for me, staring at the field, trying to find our purpose here.

He glances at the towels. “Are we – lying here? Marco, what the –”

“Shh. Look.” I point at the sky.

He looks up.

His eyes light up.

The tension drops from his body like it was never there.

“Oh my _god_ , Marco,” he murmurs reverently. “It’s _beautiful_.”

“Pick a place to lie down. The field is yours.”

He strides straight to the middle of the field. “Here.”

We lay out the towels and lie down.

The stars stretch out above us.

There’s next to no light pollution here. We can see them all.

The only thing I can hear is Jean’s peaceful breathing.

And then –

“Marco, why did you – what are you – what’s the point of this?”

“Nothing,” I whisper. “No point. No strings attached. I just – wanted to do this for you.”

I hear him swallow.

“What if. I. Was okay. With the strings? If they were to be attached?”

Is he – I can feel my heart thumping in my chest. Can hear it, too. “Jean –”

I look over at him.

He’s looking resolutely at the sky, but his hand is lying between us.

Should I?

I reach down, ignoring the way my hand is shaking, and thread my fingers through his. Slowly. So slowly. Painfully slowly.

His fingers curl around mine.

He glances over at me and opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. His eyes are full of stars.

I squeeze his hand, and he settles for a smile.

“I’d give you the stars if you were willing to accept them,” I murmur.

“I’ll take the strings and the stars, then.”

He wiggles a little closer to me, cuddling into my side.

I pull in a deep breath. And exhale. And he’s still here. By my side. And happy.

His hand is warmer than the night air.

“ _Merci,_ Marco.”

“ _De rien_ , Jean.”


End file.
